KHome: The hunt

I lived with my parents for over a year, but I actually started looking for apartments only a few weeks after my return.

What I found was that rentals in my chosen neighborhoods (Madeira, Kenwood, Blue Ash, and Montgomery) were HELLA expensive. Possibly more expensive than Hyde Park, thanks to the low number of rentals available in the first place. I was looking at one-bedroom apartments that were $850 a month.

So one day, frustrated with the apartment listings, I started browsing a real-estate site. I had a little fun playing with the property search ... and then, suddenly, I saw it. A house in Madeira ... that I could actually afford?

Curious, half disbelieving, I clicked the mortgage calculator. Not only could I afford it, it would be WAY cheaper than an apartment in the same neighborhood. It would even be cheaper than the efficiency I had seen listed two blocks away.

I had never believed people who said buying was cheaper than renting. Turns out, I had been looking at the wrong kinds of houses for my single income. This house was teeny-tiny as homes go - basically a two-bedroom apartment with a basement. But it's just me and the cat, and she said she could do without the extra space, so I called up the agent to take a look.

That house ... is not the KHome. I liked it; I even tried to put in an offer on it; but someone else got it first. But from then on, I wasn't looking at apartments anymore. I had caught the buying bug.

Stage 0: follow-up

Just a quick update to say that I got the results back from the lab, and they got it all! Yay! No more not-quite-cancer!

As it turned out once I got the bandage off, I had 14 stitches.

Yikes.

Since getting the stitches removed, that wicked-looking Frankenstein scar has calmed down into a sedate red line. Other than that, the only thing I have to remember my melanoma-in-situ adventure is my quarterly dermatologist appointment.

So. Again. If a thing looks or feels weird, and you have insurance (which in a few months should be more of you), get. The thing. Checked. Out. Best case scenario: you get out of a couple hours of work to be told there's nothing wrong with you! It's basically a mini-vacation with a creamy center of validation, and that's if your fears are unfounded. Do it!

Stage 0

Time for Science Corner, kids!

Today, we're going to talk about melanoma. Specifically, melanoma in situ - which, if you're going to have melanoma, is totally the kind you want.

That's what the dermatologist NP told me when she called to give me the lab results on the weird mole near my elbow, anyway. (She spent one-third of the call telling me what I have and two-thirds of the call telling me not to freak out.)

Melanoma is skin cancer. Melanoma in situ, also known as melanoma stage 0, is not. Not yet, anyway. (Or, as another doctor I spoke to put it, it's "not quite cancer." I found the addition of the quite a little disheartening.) It's just a group of irregular cells with a suspicious tendency to become cancerous.

Look, ma, it doesn't say "cancer" anywhere! (Source: cancer.gov.)

If you know me, you know how strange it is that I should have a skin disorder associated with spending too much time in the sun. I'm no sun worshipper; I wear SPF 15 lotion almost every day and supplement with SPF 30 sport spray if I know I'm going to be outside for any significant amount of time. But in college, I wasn't as careful, and I got some nasty burns before I wised up. Looks like that might have come back to bite me.

(The doctors basically said, "Eh, you have the complexion for it," as though skin cancer was all but inevitable for me. I might need to start looking into big floppy hats.)

The treatment for melanoma in situ is simple - cut out all the irregular cells before they have the chance to go rogue. So that's why I went back to the dermatologist yesterday - to let them carve out a few more square inches of my skin.

The original mole was probably half an inch in diameter.

The diamond shape is so the scar will come in as a nice straight line and not a big puckered circle. The incision went all the way down to the fatty layer of my skin. I didn't watch during the procedure, but after it was done, I asked if I could see the skin that had been cut away. There it was, floating in a sample cup and looking like a science experiment rather than something that had been a part of me three minutes ago.

So now I have a bunch of stitches and a right arm that hurts like the dickens. Good thing I'm left-handed.

Ouchie.

They said they'd call me and let me know whether they got all the irregular cells, and I also get to have a whole new super-fun relationship with UC Dermatology where I go back to be monitored every few months for the next couple years. Yay, new friends!

So, the moral of the story is: Listen to your mother (who had been bugging me to go to the dermatologist for months), get those moles checked out, and invent a time machine so you can go back and spray down your 19-year-old self with SPF 30.

Where have you been?

"I'll be OK," I wrote a whole year ago.

And I have been.

I've been hanging out with friends.

And with fire.

And with drinks.
And, when Ayla's involved, with phones constantly out.

I've been working.

Yes, my job title is still "copywriter."
I wear a lot of hats.

I've been running.

I meant to do an entire post on this picture.
I still might.

Though probably not nearly as much as I should.

I've been lovin' on my new niece.

Bawwwww.

And I've been living with my parents.

Who have also been lovin' on my niece.

(The cat was all, "Hey, why did we move?" But she got over it.)

With the help of many belly rubs.

Moving back in with your parents when you're in your 30s is a strange experience, a weird mix of adulthood and being a teenager again. They love you and want to help you out, but they also know you can take care of yourself, because they've seen you do it for the last 10 years. They don't really need to do the strict-parent thing they did when you were 17, and frankly, they don't want to anymore. That part of their lives is behind them.

The result (at least for me) is a pair of extremely pleasant roommates who don't mind at all when you eat all their cereal and don't replace it. We hang out with the neighbors. We go for walks around the neighborhood. We grill steaks and eat at the tiki bar.

Oh, that's right. My parents have a tiki bar. There's also a pool. A hot tub. A bar with a tap in the basement. Cable TV. All the little extras you gradually accumulate after working for 35 years, after the kids are out of college and can fend for themselves.

I intended to stay a month, maybe two, while I found a new place and got back on my feet. It's now been over a year.

And, honestly, it's time to go. I need to be on my own again. I need to remember what it feels like to have to do a balance inquiry before a withdrawal at an ATM. I need to start doing my own cooking again.

This has been a good year. It's been an important year. But it's also been a year of transition. And now it's time to move on.

As it turns out, you can go home again. But you shouldn't stay there forever.